Sometimes I think about that strange place where we,
the mad children of the times collected in black caverns
of fantasy and desire. It was so long ago now when we let
our voices whisper and roar as we raced through love and lust,
our hands slipping and gripping even as the familiarity
wove an unbroken chain through the ensuing years.
The hurts we gave to each other were never intended
for we were the wild flowers that bloom in innocence.
I miss those times we spent together laughing and learning,
for though I have found many more moments in the light,
and many moments, too, alone before the howling abyss,
it is the first blossom in company with like-yielding wild flowers
that always fill memories stolen in the fading evening sunlight
with the strongest scent of both tears shed and laughter shared.